


Eternal

by orphan_account



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Carlos is a Good Boyfriend, Cecil Is Not Described, Cecil Might be Human or Inhuman, Fluff, Heartbreaking, Illegal Activities, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Protective Carlos, Sad, Time Travel, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, what is tags precious
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-01 22:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4037254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil Gershwin Palmer is the voice of Night Vale, and has been for a very long time. Very, very long. In fact, some might say he's immortal. </p><p>He misses his dear Carlos. While Cecil is living in a state of loneliness and depression, a voice sparks his memories.</p><p>Warning: Major feels and possible waterworks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Past Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction EVER. Thank you for checking it out, fellow citizens!
> 
> I've been toying with this plot for weeks, and I'm so inspired by this couple. They make me feel all the feels.
> 
> I would love to receive feedback, recommendations, or any advice you will give to a Newbie McNewbison.
> 
> Thanks, again. :) <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil is lonely. Cecil is often lonely.
> 
> Carlos helped while he could.

“And with that chilling revelation, I bid you good night, Night Vale. Good night.”

Cecil finished his broadcast in the same way he always did, letting the words resonate. His listeners would return to their normal lives. 

Cecil was not so eager to return to his life.

He locked the studio behind him and said goodbye to Intern Hyacinth, grabbing his jacket and empty thermos.

Cecil had been drinking a lot of coffee lately. Sleep had become an enemy, and caffeine was an effective deterrent. When he did sleep, it was against his will, a state forced unto him by the vague, yet menacing government agency. They would not allow his insomnia to damage his radio performance.

The radio host was tiring nonetheless. He had more wrinkles than ever, permanent shadows under his eyes, and an aura of surrender. Cecil had given up on his fashion, too, falling back on a wardrobe of simple shirts and unremarkable pants.

He shuffled his way down the sidewalk, slowly. The wind kicked desert sand into his eyes, causing them to tear up.

No, not tear up. His eyes watered; The desert sand did not sadden him.

When possible, he walked to work. The noises and sights of the outside world were preferable to the silence and dark of home.

At the stoplight, Cecil waited for the cross signal to change, signifying the relative safety of crossing a road. A deer waited next to him. Cecil could feel himself being watched.

Nearly to his door, Cecil heard someone call to him by name. The voice was oaky, and slightly nasally. The familiarity caused him to whip around so quickly he kinked his neck.

"Carlos?" he thought, hopefully. Desperately.

It was not Carlos. It was Erika, resting on a nearby bench and reading a novel on economics.

“How are you, Cecil,” said Erika, not as a question, but as a conventional human salutation.

“I’m good,” he replied, but he was lying. 

Erika watched him go inside, clearly worried. Or, rather, concerned.

Letting out a long, shuddering sigh, Cecil kicked off his shoes, recovering from the encounter. Of course, Erika had not intended to sound like that. Angels could not hear gender. They did not understand the specific emotions connected to certain voices.

But, oh, did that voice hold a connection with Cecil.

He continued into the house. It was a small house, practical and well used. At one time, it had been modern. Now, in the past tense of modern, it was old. Old and hollow like its owner.

Cecil let his body drop onto the sofa, letting out all tension from his limbs. Dust burst up from the cushions with an audible puff, then resettled elsewhere. Staring at the ceiling intently, he tried with all his will to forget that voice. He tried to ignore the memories, and he tried to suppress the emotions.

He failed. He let out a pathetic, broken sob. His vision turned blurry as he continued to cry, unable to stop. The tears flowed and the memories followed.

It had been years since Cecil felt such raw emotion, and decades since he had wept. 

Whenever he became too mentally unstable, he would be forced into reeducation. This happened once every year or so, and the agency would confiscate whatever pieces of his mind they saw fit. They took names, faces, and events from his memory.

Much to their dismay, they had been unable to instill pep back into their radio host. His natural zest was gone... gone like his home’s second occupant. The Faceless Old Woman was also gone, bored with Cecil’s unresponsiveness.

As the Voice of Night Vale, Cecil was used to losing people. Since he became the Voice, he had met and lost countless souls. His brother was one of those souls. Intern upon intern joined the list.

The agency erased their faces. They let him remember his mother, whose erasure would have been far too complicated. He was allowed to remember only a few of his family.

He was not allowed to remember lovers, once they passed away. Their memories were too heavy a burden. Yet, one specific lover would not leave his memory.

Suddenly with a purpose, Cecil pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

The phone rang once.

Please, Cecil prayed to the Unsmiling God, please work.

The phone rang again, this time with static interference. His heart pounded in fear. This call would not likely find the correct time and place.  
He hoped to reach the Carlos that once was, long ago. He crossed his fingers, urging the call to connect to the past version of his Carlos. Cecil was not a scientist, he did not understand interdimensional communications, he could not calcula—

“Cecil? Hi babe,” Carlos said.

“Carlos,” Cecil sighed. It had actually worked. “Carlos, I miss you.”

He had not called with a planned conversation. That was not important. 

Carlos did not need to know that he was speaking to the future Cecil. That knowledge would lead to questions with upsetting answers. This Carlos was speaking from centuries ago. This past-Carlos did not exist in this Cecil’s present.

“Cece, I just got off the phone with you,” the endearment was clear in Carlos’ voice. “Are you alright? Is it the toaster again? I told you, wheat may be illegal, but having a wheat-associated kitchen appliance is hardly—“

“It’s…it’s not the toaster, Carlos,” Cecil’s voice shook. He basked in Carlos’ concern, his voice, his ranting. So familiar. “I just wanted to tell you that I love you very much. And that I would never change you, or trade you for anything.”

“Hon, I love you too, of course. Are you sure you’re okay? I can come home if you want.”

“No!” Cecil said, suddenly. “I mean… No, Carlos. I’m perfectly fine. Go on with your science.”

Carlos seemed unconvinced. “I will, Cecil, but if there’s anything you need, let me know. I’m going to hang up now... I love you.”

“I love you, Carlos.” Cecil heard the phone disconnect, severing their exchange.

Had he been more forward- thinking, Cecil would have saved Carlos’ voicemails. Having the messages instead of his lover was no substitute, but any reminder was precious.

Crying more gently now, Cecil sat up, wiping his traitorous eyes and sniffling. He scanned his living area, checking whether or not any Secret Police were present. They were not.

Kneeling down, he gently tapped a floorboard. The resulting sound revealed that the space underneath was not a cement floor, but an orifice created for discreet storage. The floorboard lifted up without resistance.

The hole was small, about the size of a shoebox. Cecil reached in, carefully setting aside a purple cat collar. This token caused a different kind of pain.

From the shadow of the compartment, Cecil pulled out a picture frame, now considered an antique. It held the only photograph Cecil owned. The government agency had not allowed Cecil to keep photo albums, scrapbooks, or digital memory of any photographic images.

Other citizens were allowed these small luxuries. Cecil was the exception, simply because of his immeasurably long life. The agency did not like him to hold on to distracting sentiments.

Cecil needed this single photo to survive. He’d had dozens of lovers, and easily forgotten just as many. But this one was somehow different.

He touched the glass, as if reaching for that day, long gone. That had been centuries ago. That day was the best of his life. His broken heart rebelled at the sight, pattering erratically.

He missed Carlos so much. They had been so vastly opposite, so perfectly imperfect in their relationship. They had a slow start, true. But, after that, it only got better.

After Carlos had returned from the desert otherworld, he and Cecil purchased their first house. 

They spent so much time together, and with Khoshekh, and with Janice. They tried not to spend time apart. Carlos met Mrs. Palmer once, at a homecoming game. Cecil met Carlos’ family many times. They celebrated holidays and had dinners.

They met many people, who came and went. Nobody stayed long, as far as Cecil was concerned. With such a vast lifespan, a normal human’s life was minute.

Carlos had shared his life with Cecil…Cecil had only given back a moment of his life.

Carlos had lived to be 81 years old. He developed common human diseases, and deteriorated. Cecil watched, helpless.

And with death, Carlos’ suffering ended. Cecil’s suffering was amplified.

Refocusing on the photo, Cecil was now silent. His tear ducts had stopped working.

The photo showed their wedding day. Carlos had been young and bright. Cecil had been as ageless as ever. The specific details escaped him. The photo was all he had of that day.

Cecil remembered Carlos. He did not remember other lovers. He did not remember much.

And as he sat, cross-legged, on the cold floor of his empty home, Cecil’s eyes watered.

No, not watered. Teared up. His eyes teared up in longing for the past. These lost moments brought him such immeasurable sadness.


	2. Past Performance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil lives through one of the most important days of his long, long life.

Cecil lay staring up at a ceiling, not sure of where he was. It was comfortably warm and familiar. He felt his body atop soft linens. A deep breathe brought notes of musk, lavender soap, and coffee.

He sat up and looked around. The room was small, with a large dresser, side tables, and an open closet. He took in this information from his spot on the bed, which he realized was his own.

“Oh. Of course,” he said, to no one. “I’m in my bedroom.”

This alleviated some confusion. However, Cecil felt an uneasy sense of déjà vu. His mind wasn’t quite grasping the whole situation.

He stood and went to the closet, hoping to figure out what was bothering him. Looking inside, he noticed the usual arrangement: his wardrobe was organized by color and season. His shoes hung from a rack on the door, and his hats sat up on a shelf.

Something to the right of the purple clothing caught his attention, and he turned his head.

There were flannels and dress shirts, hung without any sense of organization. They were far too conservative to be his.

“Cecil! You’re awake,” came an excited voice.

He turned towards the source, surprised.

Carlos stood in the doorway to their bedroom. His hair was still sleep-tussled and he hadn’t put on a lab coat yet.

“Big day today, babe,” he came in and hugged Cecil, kissing his cheek sweetly. “I made breakfast for us.”

Cecil was shocked, but didn’t know why. He hugged back tightly. His uneasiness remained, but Carlos seemed perfectly normal. He felt normal, and sounded normal, and smelled normal.

Cecil held on, mind racing. What was this nagging feeling? His brain was trying to tell him something, or it was trying to hide something. Either way, Cecil couldn’t simply accept the moment. Something was off.

“Hon?”

He snapped out of his daze, allowing Carlos to hold him out at arm’s length.

“Cece, are you alright?” Carlos looked straight through Cecil, and he had no choice but to relax. That loving gaze could sooth him every time; his eyes were a deep brown, and looking into them reminded Cecil of chocolate, or suede, or any number of luxurious, comforting things.

“Carlos,” he managed, feeling his tension melt away. He absentmindedly let a hand drift though his boyfriend’s hair. “I’m… Yes, I’m just fine. Of course I am; you’re here.”

The Scientist’s face took on a rosy tinge and he giggled. He grabbed Cecil’s hand, and they walked to the kitchen together.

“How did you sleep?” Carlos asked, gathering dishes for their meal.

“I must have slept well,” Cecil said, hoping Carlos could help with his confusion. “When I woke up, I didn’t even realize where I was, or what was going on. I mean, none of us ever really know what’s happening, I know that, but—“ he stopped to put the feeling into words.

“Something feels…off.”

Carlos turned back to him, searching his face for further explanation. He smiled gently then, setting the plates on the table.

“Something does feel different,” he agreed, intertwining his fingers with Cecil’s. “But it’s a good different, right?”

With that, he lifted up Cecil’s hand, running his thumb over the gold band on his ring finger.

Only through great effort did Cecil suppress a gasp. They were engaged. Of course they were, they’d always talked about getting married. In fact, Cecil had talked about it with the whole town over the radio. His heart pounded as he put all the pieces together. He knew all of this, so why had he forgotten?

He had proposed on air. They’d been engaged for months. They’d planned it all out. All their friends had been throwing ideas their way and offering help.

So much effort had been going towards…when?

Stealing a glance at the calendar revealed days crossed out, one after another, leading to that Saturday. It had hearts drawn all over it. 

How could he have forgotten that they were getting married today? That must have been why Cecil felt so odd. All the excitement must have left him overwhelmed and drained. He pushed the eerie feeling from his mind.

“Yes,” Cecil finally replied. “Yes, my perfect Carlos, it’s a good different. It’s a great different.”

They kissed once more, and then sat down to eat. They talked and stole timid glances over their parfaits. Somehow, Carlos had managed to get a permit for buying strawberries, and Cecil couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a nice breakfast.

Both men went upstairs to prepare for the day ahead.

Cecil pulled off his pajama pants and browsed through his closet. He jumped as Carlos rest a hand on his hip.

“Oh, and by the way,” he murmured against Cecil’s neck, “you should be excited for later tonight, too.”

With a quick kiss, he left the room. The suggestive move had rid Cecil of his final shred of worry. Now, he felt…a bit eager. He felt anxious for the wedding. More than anything, he felt happy.

They spent the day apart, greeting loved ones as they arrived in town and preparing. 

Finally, that evening, it all came together. Nearly everyone in town was gathered beneath a tent in the vacant lot behind the Ralph’s. The air was buzzing with conversation and positive energy.

Cecil was in a smaller, separate tent with Abby and Old Woman Josie.

“Bend down, sweetie, and I’ll put your crown on,” said Josie. 

Cecil obliged, and she placed a traditional crown of organs and sinew on Cecil’s hair. It was, of course, dried out, for obvious reasons.

“Mom would be so happy, Cece,” said Abby, tearing up, “and you look amazing.”

Unable to look in a mirror, Cecil took her word. He trusted his own sense of fashion, and exited the tent in a pair of dressy fur pants, a blouse, and an heirloom Apache vest.

He waited outside the larger tent, and when he heard the processional, started forward.

His hands were shaking behind the large bouquet of desert flowers. Janice rolled her wheelchair down the aisle ahead of him, scattering petals. Each step lasted a lifetime, and he focused forward on the only thing that mattered: Carlos.

Carlos stood up near the podium, next to Mayor Dana Cardinal, and was not yet turned to Cecil. He wore a white, lace-overlain lab coat with traditional slacks and shirt. His dark skin and hair contrasted boldly and beautifully.

Cecil looked down to regain his composure, and had to stop. The petals were not petals at all. They were bones: Dry, cracked, manila-colored bones. Frail bird bones, and slender snake vertebrae and long human phalanges. 

He staggered backward and felt them crunch underfoot. What was this, some long forgotten ritual?

He looked around to see if the bones alarmed others.

There was no one. Empty folding chairs sat in rows, numbering the attendees that should have been.

He turned completely to look behind him and saw rows upon rows of empty chairs. The tent entrance was gone, lost miles away behind the infinite vacancy.

Panicking, Cecil whipped his head back forward.

“Carlos!” he yelled, “Carlos, what’s happening?”

Carlos stood ahead, not looking back. Dana was gone. Janice was gone, empty wheelchair still lazing forward as if propelled by a ghost.

Cecil ran to Carlos. In the suddenly nightmarish world, Carlos was his only solace.

He reached for Carlos’ shoulder, pulling him around.

His lab coat slipped off, revealing a skeletal frame. Cecil’s withdrew his hand with a cry of fear.

Before him, Carlos crumpled to dust, and was blown up in a flurry of sand and remains. The cloud obscured Cecil’s vision, and his world went dark.

Cecil woke from the dream, tears streaming into his hairline. He had fallen asleep and paid the consequences.

Sleep always brought his most wretched fantasies. They lulled him into believing he was reliving a harmless memory.

They truly became nightmares after he woke. 

Cecil turned in bed seeking comfort, and found himself alone. The covers were tucked in on the other side. Centuries ago, Carlos had annoyed him by hogging the covers at night.

Now, Cecil would trade anything to get Carlos back. To live alone now seemed pointless.

One day, he hoped to reunite with Carlos, somewhere in another realm.

For now, all Cecil could do was dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry to anyone who read this. I know: emotions. I cried while writing this. Cecil, you poor, sweet man.


End file.
